


To The Nines

by aFlyingFinch



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: F/F, F/M, M/M, Relationship(s), Some Fluff, Some Not-So-Fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-13
Updated: 2016-10-01
Packaged: 2018-08-14 21:44:39
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 5,601
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8029924
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aFlyingFinch/pseuds/aFlyingFinch
Summary: Nine Inquisitors, nine romances, nine moments. Because I needed some practice writing character voices for The Herald and Her Aegis, so why not make it shippy?





	1. The Majesty of Art

‘What do you suppose it’s meant to be?’

‘…a horse?’ Garrick guessed.

‘I was thinking dog,’ Josephine sighed, cocking her to one side as they continued to stare at the painting.

Garrick rather enjoyed occasions like this. He loved the Inquisition, but he was less a fan of the Inquisitor. People who had once looked at the rebel mage with disgust or disdain now stared in adoration, and he wasn’t entirely sure which was worse. Fortunately, “human male with short brown hair” was the most non-descript it was possible for a person to be in Thedas. Lose the coat for a simple tunic, leave the staff at home, and he could pass for a stranger even in Val Royeaux. The Inquisition’s famous ambassador on his arm rather undermined the effect, sadly, but most assumed he was simply an attendant or a chaperone - or if they did recognise him, they got the message and left well enough alone.

‘Perhaps it’s deliberately… confusing,’ the ambassador fretted. ‘A stylistic choice?’

‘It certainly seems to be a theme,’ he said dubiously, looking at the other paintings around the room.

Attending Yvette’s first salon had seemed a good idea at the time. An escape from Skyhold, some quality time with Josephine’s family that didn’t require a ship to Antiva… now, he was beginning to regret the idea. They had entered the room under a great sign in gold bearing the words of the Montilyet family - “From sea to shore, we tame the waves”, quite a pretty motto - and flanked by two misshapen clay men. Judging by the wings sprouting from their backs and the pointed griffon beaks from their faces, he was fairly sure they were supposed to be Grey Wardens. That introduction had rather set the tone for the rest of the collection. He wasn’t sure if it was supposed to be absurd, surreal, or just… bad. No, that was unfair. _Terrible_ was more like it. Yvette had retired less than an hour in, claiming she was “exhausted by the majesty of it all”, and if not for the audience, he was fairly sure Josephine would have strangled her.

‘Maybe the next one will be better,’ she sighed, moving to the next easel - and absent-mindedly swapping her empty goblet for a full one from the elven serving girl they passed.

The next canvas showed a majestic galleon, probably Antivan, and was actually rather _good_. Fine detail on the bow, smooth sails that billowed realistically in the wind. Quite good indeed.

‘Oh. This is _much_ better,’ Josie smiled, then tilted her head again, quizzically. ‘What are those two doing on the deck?’

They leaned forward in unison, squinting at the two figures bent over the railing- and leapt back in unison as well when they realised. Garrick could feel his ears reddening. Josephine just drained her goblet, suppressing a shudder.

‘Is that wise?’ the Inquisitor whispered, resting a hand on the small of her back and glancing at the now-empty goblet.

‘I… I need this. I need this. This salon cost _so much money_ to arrange...’

‘What’s money compared to family?’

‘…and her apartments…’

‘Well-’

‘…and her _tutors_ …’

‘Admittedly, _they_ may have been a waste of gold.’

She glared at him, and he recoiled. Placid as she was, even the Inquisitor knew better than to raise the ambassador’s ire. Before she could snap, he pressed his lips to hers, and pried the wine goblet free in her momentary surprise, ignoring the vaguely scandalized expressions around them.

‘I’ll go and see about a refill. Though if you wanted to leave early, we could always say there were assassins.’

‘At this point, assassins may even be preferable,’ Josie sighed, with all the dry humour of one used to restraining their thoughts. ‘Thank you, Inq- thank you, Garrick.’

He bowed his head, and went in search of the elven serving girl. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw an elderly Orlesian couple walk up to the horse-dog, the man stroking a hand through a long grey beard as he murmured to his companion:

‘Exquisite simplicity. One can almost taste the artist’s despair...’

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Up next: the Iron Bull.


	2. An Interruption

When the artists of Orlais selected a properly “regal” pose for the silly portraits Josephine insisted on, Adha was fairly sure that pose wasn’t flat on her back and naked as the day she was born. Such were life’s great discrepancies. Besides, it wasn’t as if she could _do_ anything about it. Athletic as she was, and try as she might, she couldn’t get her wrists free of the massive hand pinning them above her head. It was strangely fitting, in a way. Adha Adaar stood a foot taller than most of her soldiers, and the Vashoth could cleave a man in two with her greatsword. The only man who got to pin her down was the only one in Skyhold who _could_ …

‘Bad form,’ she scowled, raising a foot in warning. ‘Your balls are wide open.’

‘In some circles, that’s called foreplay,’ Bull shrugged, still holding himself up with one hand as the other pinned her arms. ‘But we’re getting off-track. I believe you were apologising for something?’

She sighed.

‘I’m sorry I took you to Adamant.’

‘And?’

‘And I’m sorry we went into the Fade.’

‘ _And?_ ’

‘And I’m sorry I made you fight demons.’

‘I didn’t catch that last part.’

‘ _I’m sorry I made you fight demons,_ ’ she repeated, a little louder.

‘…good girl,’ he grinned, leaning down to press his lips to her breastbone, something halfway between a kiss and a bite. _Ngh._

If one had to be pinned down, she supposed, it was at least worth having fun with it. She settled for admiring the broad, muscular chest and tattoos as she - and anyone who happened to pass him in the halls, given his usual attire - had so many times before, until he moved up to her collar, rough jaw pushing her head back, denying her the view-

‘What was that?’ she muttered suddenly, eyes blinking open.

‘Nice try,’ he chuckled, from somewhere below her ear.

‘Bull, I’m serious.’

‘And I’m not an idiot, _kadan_.’

‘No, seriously-’

‘ _Inquisitor?_ ’ a voice called from the hallway. Bull’s head jerked up suddenly, almost taking her eye out with a horn.

‘Did you lock the door?’ she whispered.

‘Uh…’

He released her wrists a moment later, she scrambled out from underneath him - giving him a sharp _whack_ to the solar plexus that sent him sprawling onto the bed - and sprinted for the door, as echoing footsteps began to drift through from the landing beyond.

‘Inquisitor, I-’

_Wham!_ The door only opened a half-inch before she slammed it shut again with one hand, drawing a startled yelp from the ambassador on the other side.

‘Little busy!’ she shouted through it, the strain in her voice obvious.

‘My apologies,’ Josephine replied. ‘I have some letters for you to go over, may I come in?’

‘Can it wait? I’m just in the middle of something, I’m…’

She looked back at Bull, who had picked himself up and was sat on the edge of the bed, clutching his winded stomach. He gave her a mystified shrug, she scowled back at him, and their silent conversation ended with:

‘…training?’

‘In… the bedchamber?’

‘You can never be too careful! Assassins and all that. You know.’

‘ _Assassins?_ ’

‘Hypothetical! Hypothetical assassins. None here now. No need for… alarm.’

Bull buried his face in a giant palm. Adha gave him her best _I’m trying_ face.

‘I must say, Inquisitor, I always imagined you’d sound more… angry, in the heat of things,’ Josephine babbled - was she oblivious, or messing with them? ‘You seem positively civil for a berserker.’

‘Civil. Well. I’m… I’m trying _very hard_ right now. So much rage.’

‘Oh, for fuck’s sake…’ Bull grumbled, standing up from the bed and pacing over to the door.

‘Wait, is that-?’

Before Josephine could finish her thought - or Adha could stop him - Bull had latched one giant hand around the edge of the door, and yanked it out of her grip, opening it wide and revealing them both in all their glory.

Adha sighed. Josephine went bug-eyed. Bull glared.

‘ _Busy,_ ’ he rumbled.

‘I… yes,’ was all the ambassador managed, eyes lingering just a little too long on the pair before she turned on her heel and set off back across the landing, wearing the expression of a woman who’d seen a ghost.

‘You’re an asshole,’ the Inquisitor muttered. Reaching for the door, she added: ‘…get back on the damn bed.’

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Up next: Sera.


	3. The Qunari Thing

‘Humans?’ Brenna wondered aloud.

‘Eh,’ Sera shrugged.

It was an odd sort of afternoon. Dappled sunlight was floating in through the window, the sounds of revelry were drifting up from the tavern, and Sera and the Inquisitor were enjoying their customary odd conversation in an odd position. Specifically, side by side on the bed, with their feet on the window sill and heads hanging off the edge of the bed. Maybe it was the blood rushing from her feet to her head, but she couldn’t quite remember how they’d gotten there. She remembered Sera trying to draw her bowstring with her feet at one point, arrow gripped studiously between her teeth. The Inquisitor’s coat was abandoned on the other side of the room, pockets stuffed with lockpicks, tools, and a crudely-drawn picture of Corypheus that “Red Jenny” had nailed to her door with an arrow that morning.

‘I mean, most of them are pretty,’ her companion continued. ‘Shame some of them are complete arsebiscuits.’

‘…indeed,’ the Dalish elf chuckled. ‘Are you more a… Cassandra or a Josephine kind of girl?’

‘Why be picky? Pretty sure they both look good with their hair down. I mean, Cassandra doesn’t have much to let down. Do you think she’s got much down-?’

‘Moving on,’ Brenna interrupted, with a cough. She was avoiding meeting the other elf’s eye as well, given the way Sera’s hair was spilling ridiculously to the floor, her face scarlet from the upside-down blood rush. ‘Elves?’

‘Ehhh…’

‘Elves who _aren’t me_ ,’ she clarified.

‘Oh. Eugh!’

‘…I suppose I should be flattered. Dwarves?’

A long silence followed. Unexpectedly long, in fact, and when she glanced over Sera’s eyes had gone vacant, staring at the far wall in thought.

‘Interesting,’ the Inquisitor smirked.

‘…don’t tell Harding.’

‘Wouldn’t dream of it. Qunari?’

‘Phwoar.’

‘I still don’t get the Qunari thing,’ Brenna sighed.

‘There’s just so much of them, right? I mean, where do you even start? And they’re _strong_ , too…’

‘Hey. I’m strong,’ the Inquisitor scowled, folding her arms across her chest. The fact they almost wrapped entirely around her skinny frame didn’t exactly help her argument. Sera bit her lip, sniggered a couple of times…

…and then shot back up onto the bed, cradling her stomach in a full-on fit of giggles. Slowly, Brenna raised herself up too - feeling slightly sick as the blood rushed back down from her head - and scowled at her shaking back. It didn’t seem to change much.

‘What’s so funny?’

‘That thing you just said,’ Sera answered, honestly.

With the best growl she could muster, Brenna lunged at her back, grabbed her by the shoulders, and pushed her down against the bed, with the most evil grin she could manage. Sera just kept laughing. It was rather disappointing, but she kept up the act, growling:

‘You were saying?’

The reply was little more than a giggle from the red, freckled face beneath her. She opened her mouth to say something else, only to feel two hands plant against her chest - copping a feel on the way - as Sera threw her off, landing on the other end of the bed. Before she could react, her companion had pounced, straddling her waist and grabbing a hand in each of hers.

‘You’re not strong, Buckles,’ Sera teased, leaning down with a cat-like grin a few inches from the Inquisitor’s face. ‘You’re quick, and you’re smart, and you’re _mine_ , but you’re not strong. Not pin-you-down-and-ravish-you strong…’

‘I, uh… seem to have become too distracted to argue,’ Brenna gulped.

‘Funny, that.’

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next up: Dorian.


	4. Scandalous Tangles

There were few better feelings in the world than a tangle of limbs on a sleepy morning. As he rolled over onto his front, arms thrust under the cold side of the pillow, Alec Trevelyan couldn’t help but feel a sense of accomplishment as he looked at his companion.

‘Goood morning,’ Dorian sighed, without opening his eyes.

‘Good morning,’ he smiled back, voice still hoarse from the previous night.

‘You know, it is rather fun,’ the other man murmured, ‘to think how this might be received by the Chantry faithful. Do you think they’ll put it in the stories? The Herald of Andraste - an apostate, heretic, Tevinter-shagging necromancer?’

‘I think they have other things to focus on, besides my adventures in the bedroom. You just listed most of them.’

‘You’d be surprised, my dear Inquisitor. Chastity results in remarkably filthy minds, I find.’

‘That, I believe. Divine Rosamund, anyone?’

‘And her “Perfumed Sanctuary”. Only the finest in heretical smut,’ Dorian chuckled.

It was a wonderful tangle, to be sure. The doors to the balcony were still open wide, sunlight spilling in over the white-capped mountains and into the Inquisitor’s room. The embers of last night’s fire were fluttering gently in the fire, and there was a book still resting on the arm of his chair - along with two bottles of Antivan wine now empty on the side table. The sheets were wound up around their legs, the drapes of the four-poster bed left open to allow a slight, cool breeze from the window. After a minute or so of silence, Dorian rolled onto his side, an idle finger tracing circles on the Inquisitor’s shoulder blade.

‘In all seriousness, I do wonder how history will remember you,’ he admitted. ‘I wonder if they’ll mention how sickeningly _charming_ you were, for an apostate, heretic, Tevinter-shagging necromancer.’

‘Charming, is it?’

‘Indeed. The hair, the eyes,’ he mused, pushing blond hair back from Alec’s brow as the blue eyes turned to peer at him. With a smirk he added: ‘The _smoulder_ …’

‘ _Smoulder?_ ’

‘Oh, don’t think no-one notices. You could ask the cook for table scraps, and she’d melt into your arms if you _smouldered_ while you said it. I imagine half the kitchen girls daydream about you… and some of the kitchen boys, too.’

‘Jealous?’

‘Certainly not. I wish you’d teach me how to do it.’

‘You’re perfectly charming as it is,’ he sighed, rolling onto his back and putting his hands behind his head. ‘And stylish. And witty, to boot.’

‘Wit is no substitute for _smoulder_. My great-aunt used to say as much.’

‘Did she really?’

‘No. If she had, I might have learned to smoulder sooner.’

Alec groaned and shut his eyes tight, as the sun crested over the Frostbacks _specifically_ to irritate him in his hungover state.

‘I do enjoy our little talks,’ Dorian admitted, with a chuckle.

‘You do a lot of it,’ Alec sighed. ‘Particularly in bed.’

‘If I didn’t exercise my _wit_ , you’d get bored of me. And we couldn’t have that, now could we?’

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next up: Blackwall.


	5. A Quiet Pint

The Herald’s Rest was oddly quiet some nights, when Maryden wasn’t singing and the Chargers weren’t carousing, and the soldiers weren’t drinking off their latest expedition. Some nights, you could settle into a table in a quiet corner, with a mug of ale and all the time in the world…

Almost immediately, Katrina’s contemplation was disturbed by the sight of an errant lock of hair in the reflection of her drink. The “Trevelyan curse”, as her hated Aunt Lucille had described it. Try as she might to tamp it down with a gloved hand, it remained as stubborn as the Inquisitor herself, and she gave up after a minute or two, grasping the tankard once again. It was still half-full, and the metal bindings felt cool and pleasant against the fingertips left bare by her archer’s gloves.

Her companion watched silently, lips crinkling into a look of amusement beneath a bushy black beard. It had been a while since she’d actually induced Blackwall to laughter, but she kept trying. And somehow, they kept gravitating to this quiet table in the corner of the tavern. Some nights they drank, played cards with Varric and Dorian, and left merry. Some nights, he had a fucking depressing story to tell - the only kind he knew, apparently. Most nights, they just sat and watched people. Katrina liked watching people, and she liked watching him, too. Two birds, one arrow.

‘I…’ he began.

‘No no, don’t stop brooding on my account,’ she murmured. ‘You’re handsome when you _brood_.’

Blackwall grumbled into his tankard, and took a hefty swig a moment later, wiping droplets from his beard with a padded sleeve.

‘You keep acting like nothing’s happened,’ he muttered, still looking at the table.

‘Because nothing _has_ happened,’ she sighed, though the squad of soldiers walking through the door disagreed. They peered at the Inquisitor and her companion, then went to take seats as far across the room as possible, shaking their heads.

‘Saying it doesn’t make it true,’ Blackwall growled.

‘It’s the past. The present is all that’s worth considering.’

‘And what exactly does the present involve?’

‘Kill demons. Save the world. Live happily ever after.’

‘A pleasant idea. Horribly unrealistic.’

‘…you’re no fun today.’

Another long silence, as both of them took another swig of ale. It had been like this for a while now. Affection met with disbelief, teasing with scowls, cheeriness with dejection. It was depressing as hell.

‘You _shouldn’t_ be okay with this,’ Blackwall sighed, trying again.

‘You don’t get to decide that. I do.’

‘I-’

‘Enough of the moody bullshit!’ she snapped, before he could continue. ‘We’ve had more than our share of it already, and frankly I’m sick of it. I fell in love with a man who did what was right, owned his mistakes, and didn’t give two shits what anyone else thought of him. I forgave him a long time ago, and I’d quite like him back now.’

Blackwall’s eyes narrowed in what seemed to be disapproval, and she swore, if he started on another monologue about how he wasn’t the man she fell in love with, she was walking out of the tavern. Instead, however, he nodded. Just once, no words. A simple nod, and a swig of ale.

‘Love you,’ he muttered, as he set the tankard back down.

‘Love you too,’ she sighed, clinking her own against it and tipping it back.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Up next: Cullen.


	6. Relieving Tension

‘Should I summon the next petitioner, Inquisitor?’ Josephine asked, carefully.

‘If this one involves another stolen goat, I’m throwing myself off the top of Skyhold,’ Caerys Trevelyan scowled.

‘…perhaps we should table it.’

‘Definitely.’

‘Very well,’ the ambassador sighed. ‘I shall return to business. Inquisitor, Commander.’

Josephine bowed her head to each of them, and strode off across the hall with all her usual grace, beginning to shoo away the line of petitioners that had formed. As she did, the Inquisitor leaned sideways in her chair, eyeing the stoic templar beside the throne.

‘Cullen? A word in private, please?' 

‘Ah… of course, Inquisitor.’

She yanked the sword belt free from around her waist, and left the ceremonial blade resting against the arm of the throne. No-one would bother to steal it in the throne room, and if they did… well. They feared her daggers more than the fancy golden sword.

‘I think things are coming together nicely,’ Cullen smiled, pushing open the door that led to her quarters and holding it open.

‘Mhm,’ she nodded, ducking under his arm and beginning to climb the stairs, as he closed the door behind them.

‘And this unfortunate business with Val Firmin should be resolved quickly,’ he continued, blissfully unaware. ‘If Josephine can’t see to it that the matter blows over, our soldiers can.’

‘Excellent,’ Caerys replied, not having a clue what the _business_ with Val Firmin was. She was too busy loosening the belt that choked her waist, and trying to pry open the upper-most button of her tunic. Clearly, whatever tailor was responsible for the get-up had wanted her to feel like a hound with a collar.

They continued in silence, climbing up one staircase, then the next, then rounding the landing that spiralled around the inside of the tower as she reached up to the back of her neck and freed her red mane from its braid. Only as they reached the door to her quarters, Caerys quickly shoving it open and stepping inside, did Cullen think to ask:

‘What exactly did you want to talk abou-’

The instant they were inside the room and the door was shut, she shoved him up against it and pressed her lips to his, pushing her body against him for good measure. She liked to _feel_ him, and for him to feel her - his hands never wandered as much as she might have liked, her straight-laced, shy commander. When they finally broke apart, after a minute or two of probing tongues, she began to tug at the buttons of her tunic once more, one after another after another… really, how many of the cursed things did one person _need?_ Catching the commander staring slack-jawed, she freed a hand to yank on his shirt, and growled:

‘Off. Now.’

‘Are you quite sure we should be-’

‘ _Now_ , Rutherford.’

He groaned at the sound of the name, even as he quickly pulled at his own buttons, and whipped the shirt off over his head to reveal the chiselled torso beneath. With a roll of his eyes, he muttered: ‘Sometimes, I really regret this little tryst of ours.’

Caerys ignored him, prying angrily at the final button until, mercifully, it popped free, and she could throw the tunic to the floor in a single messy pile. He stared. She smiled wickedly.

‘No you don’t,’ she purred, turning and heading for the bed, as she worked on the waistband of her breeches next.

‘No, I… really don’t,’ he sighed, as he made to follow.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Up next: Cassandra


	7. Victoria

It was oddly quiet in the war room. The room was intended for important people doing important work, he supposed, so it made sense that it muffled the victory celebrations, even as close as they were to the festivities. Silence hung in the air, and Jace Trevelyan stood at the back of the room, inspecting his reflection in one of the latticed windows.

He just looked like… him, for all that people tried to insist he was something else now. Victory changed none of it. The black skin of his Rivaini mother, dark hair shaved close to his scalp, jaw covered in stubble. The templar plate he wore by custom was battered and tarnished, one pauldron crushed entirely and the breastplate scorched by magefire. Andraste’s sword remained upright on his chest, however, untouched.

“He’ll make a fine templar,” his Aunt Lucille had once said. She’d meant it as a veiled insult to Bann Trevelyan’s son by his second wife - the youngest, the soon-to-be templar, the spare. Well, Aunt Lucille had been almost correct, hadn’t she? Though if she’d really seen his future, he doubted she would have believed it.

The room’s other occupant was in a rather more dour mood - or at least, was doing a worse job of hiding it. Cassandra was hunched over the war table, staring at the letter in her hand. The penmanship was neat and fine, the note sealed with an Andrastian star in red wax.

‘Staring at it won’t change what it says,’ he sighed, looking over his shoulder.

‘It might,’ she growled.

He turned to join her at the table, but stayed silent, waiting for her to continue. She wasn’t a _talker_ , Cassandra. She spoke when she had something to say, and was quiet when she didn’t. Trying to draw anything out of her was like getting blood from a stone. Better to be patient, and let her take her time.

‘I had not considered… I did not think…’

She huffed, bunching her hands into fists and falling silent again. On her second attempt, the words came easier:

‘I knew it was possible. All the same, I did not think it would really happen.’

‘I did,’ he sighed. ‘I always said you’d make a good Divine. Evidently, the grand clerics agreed.’

‘Yet you did nothing,’ she muttered, harshly. ‘You could have prevented this.’

‘Why? Because I love you, and I wish I could keep you? That would be selfish.’

Cassandra opened and closed her mouth a few times - smiled, then scowled - and finally just gave a sigh, slouching back down over the war table. Jace closed an arm around her shoulders, holding her tight as the sounds of merriment and revelry drifted through from the hall, the soundtrack to everyone else’s happy ending. Close as they were in that moment, the two of them never quite touched, armour deflecting armour.

‘I could refuse,’ she said, quietly. ‘They cannot drag me to the Grand Cathedral if I refuse.’

‘…but you won’t,’ Jace sighed, a slight smile taking one corner of his mouth. ‘You don’t run away from duty. I always admired that.’

She shuddered under his arm, rubbing her face with a gloved hand. Beyond the wall, past Josephine’s office, through the doors to the great hall, someone had started singing, with a voice as soft as a nightingale’s.

‘Have you thought of a name?’ he enquired, softly. ‘I imagine Justinia would be rather…’

‘Insensitive,’ Cassandra nodded. Glancing up towards the sounds of celebration, she continued: ‘I believe _Victoria_ might be more appropriate.’

Jace nodded. He wanted to say he liked it, or that it was fitting, that he wished Divine Victoria all the success in the world. Instead, he just pulled her close to him, his arm around her as the victory song in the great hall reached its peak. Cassandra buried her face in his collar, and wrapped her arms around his midriff. Eventually, as the song began to fade, he managed to mutter:

‘I’m proud of you.’

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next up: Solas (and y'know... spoilers).


	8. Pride & The Fall

‘Our gods saw him as a brother,’ Nera read aloud, from the book in her hand, ‘and they trusted him when he said that they must keep to the heavens while he arranged a truce. The Forgotten Ones trusted him also, when he said he would arrange for the defeat of our gods, if only the Forgotten Ones would return to the abyss for a time.

It was no book ever written. Rather, it was a tale the Keeper had once told her, burned into her memory. This place had made it real, an object with weight and shape where none had existed before.

‘They trusted Fen’Harel, and they were all of them betrayed. And Fen’Harel sealed them away so they could never again walk among the People.’

She pushed white-blonde hair off to one side as it blew in the wind, the other side of her scalp shaved almost bare, and turned her face upwards the sky rather than look at the ground. Her face felt cold. There was no reason for it to feel so, but it did. It felt cold and naked without the _vallaslin_.

The Dread Wolf had tricked her too, just as the Keeper warned all those years ago. She had walked away from the People, amongst shemlen and durgen’len, and she had lived in their keep behind tall, stone walls and Andrastian flags. Nera had found him there - no, he had found _her_ , on the mountainside with Varric and Cassandra. His curiosity had been enticing, as had his power, and his wisdom.

He had a gravity to him, the Dread Wolf. She understood why others had followed him. The burden of his caring felt heavy on your shoulders. His words of wisdom carried weight. His determination, his fervour, the visions he spoke of from the depths of the Fade… all enticing, to a young one separated from her clan. She had been in awe of him the moment they met, fierce and knowledgeable, the “key to her salvation”. She had grown to respect him after all he did for the Inquisition. And she had come to love him for all the support he had lent to her.

To admit that hurt, in a way she had never known was possible when she left the People. He had tricked her, of course. He had tricked everyone, but he had done something more to her. He had taken her wits, and her caution, and her heart. She had thrown them all away for him. Foolish girl. He had taken the _vallaslin_ too, left her bare-faced like the child of an alienage. The Dalish would never take her back without them - had he known that too? What was she thinking, of course he had. He seemed to know everything. _Fenedhis lasa_.

…and yet, here he was, despite it all, stood before her in her dream of snowy Haven. A visitor in the night.

‘I hate you,’ she snarled, expression cold. ‘I hate you, and I hate what you’ve done to me.’

Solas looked down, turning his eyes away from hers. Always closed-off, wasn’t he? Always trying to hide his feelings, to appear inscrutable. She could see the hurt in his eyes, though, however much he tried to hide it. Good. She wanted to see it there.

‘ _Ir abelas, emma lath,_ ’ he murmured to the floor.

‘ _Emma lath?_ ’ she echoed, harshly.

‘ _Ar lath ma,_ ’ Solas shrugged. With a wave of his hand, the snow became blinding white, and swallowed Haven whole.

‘…I loved you too,’ she whispered, once the dream had faded.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Up next: ???


	9. A Cadash Done Good

With a groan born of a good day’s battle, Farin Cadash shut the door to his quarters, and set about dismantling his equipment. The armoured boots had already come off at the door, leaving a muddy stain on the landing outside. His round-shield, a heavy dwarven thing that may or may not have belonged to a Legionnaire at some point, dropped just inside the room. His axe followed, a well-worn hatchet whose blade he _really_ had to get around to sharpening one of these days, and his gauntlets were discarded on a small side table usually reserved for a mug of good ale.

The rest of the armour required a bit more effort to disassemble. It took him a few minutes to unbuckle the greaves and pauldrons, throwing them under the bed - a fine, comfortable thing, though rather large for one small dwarf. He often wondered if they’d expected him to share it with someone…

When the breastplate finally came off, he breathed a big sigh of relief, and tossed it to the far wall. Cassandra would chide him about taking proper care of his armour, but it was good steel! If it could take a blow from a hurlock’s mace, it could handle being thrown around a bit. Free of his armour, he tugged the collar of his shirt open a little further, and made for the balcony, enjoying feeling of a cool breeze on his chest.

It really was a fine view, even after all this time. He wondered if the dwarves of Orzammar knew what they were missing, down in their little hole in the ground. Up here, he had _mountains_ , covered in snow and reaching high into the heavens. He could peer right down into the valley, at the tents and torchlights that surrounded Skyhold, and breathe in fresh, cold air without a hint of coalsmoke, or the taste of iron. The view was almost enough to blot out the fact that every bone in his body hurt. Good steel or not, it was hard to take a hammer-blow or a spell blast and not feel it in the morning, and he could hardly ask Varric or Sera to kindly _take this one for the team_. Every time he marched out, he came back to Skyhold feeling like he’d fallen down one of those mountains he loved so much.

Still. It was better to feel like shit as the Inquisitor in Skyhold, than to feel like shit as a Carta thug in Starkhaven. Maybe it was the air, or maybe he’d taken one too many blows to the head, but being up here always made him feel reflective, and as he reflected, he felt a surge of pride. A surfacer from an exiled family, on top of the world. Farin Cadash had done good.

Before he could pat himself on the back any further, there was a knock at the door, two sharp raps and a call of: ‘Inquisitor?’

‘Come in!’ he shouted, turning to lean his back against the balcony rail.

A pleasant surprise let herself in, in the shape of a freckled dwarf with her own armour discarded as well, replaced by a simple blue shirt and breeches. She stood to attention, instinctively, then caught herself and relaxed into a more natural position, arms folded behind her back. Smiling, as ever.

‘Scout Harding.’

‘You know, I hate it when you call me that.’

He grinned at her.

‘…which is why you do it,' Lace sighed. 'Of course. Could… you come inside?’

‘Why? It’s a good view, I promise. It even has mountains.’

‘I’m… not so good with heights,’ she admitted.

‘Really? _That’s_ why?’

‘I could think of a more _enticing_ reason for you to come inside, if you like,’ Lace smiled, trying to cock her hips to one side like Leliana did, ‘…but seriously, the heights thing. It’s not pretty.’

Farin chuckled, and shook his head, and wandered inside, closing the balcony doors behind him as Lace hopped up onto the bed. On reflection… yeah, much better than the Carta.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Up next: ...that's it, actually. Thanks for taking the time to read, and if you want more from me, check out The Herald and Her Aegis, a longer-form DA:I fic I'm working on.


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